


Echoes from the Void

by CeNedraRiva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Broken Harry, Broken Horcrux Bond, Dead Voldemort, Depression, Descent into Madness, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious Ginny, Obsession, One-Sided Harry Potter/Voldemort, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeNedraRiva/pseuds/CeNedraRiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry had been expecting more after the victory. Something brighter, bigger, vibrant. Just more...<br/>Instead he seems to be empty, drifting. He tries to ignore it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes from the Void

 

Harry was panting, his jaw trembled as he fell to his knees. Around the courtyard everyone was frozen in disbelief. Death Eater and Order members and students and teachers, hovering throughout the rubble of what had once been the Great Hall were displaying varying degrees of incredulity, scepticism and wonder. The Prophecy was fulfilled. And then it was like time sped up, and the air was filled with screams and elated cheering and the sound of spells hissing through the air as the victors caught what remained of their opponents.

Voldemort had fallen.

But Harry just blinked. He was at the centre of a vortex. All around him the Light were cheering, even as they stunned the remaining Death Eaters. Some still fought but most had fled when it registered their Lord was dead. They were roaring and whooping and singing and it was like they were drunk in their jubilation. Harry just knelt still, unresponsive to his surroundings and the joy of victory that encircled him.

It was done.

It was over.                                        

Harry had won. Voldemort had lost.

He blinked again. He didn’t feel joyous, victorious, triumphant. He had just ended the war due to a series of flukes and serendipitous circumstances, saved countless lives, Muggle and Wizard alike. Why didn’t he feel anything? He had killed Voldemort, murdered a murderer, the slaughterer of his parents. He should be feeling horror or disgust, nausea even, at the taking of another life, no matter how warped and frayed it was. Or at the very least satisfaction that he had gotten revenge, that no other would suffer the way he had at the hands of Voldemort.

He didn’t. He just felt empty.

Maybe it was shock. He looked down at his hands. In the right was Malfoy’s wand, hawthorn and unicorn hair, won from Malfoy at his manor. It had never felt as warm in his hand as his own, and despite winning through conquest it had a feeling of longing, as if it missed its old master. In his left, the Elder wand. It was _humming_ with power, almost like an electric current. It felt eager, happy to be with its true master, it wanted to be used, to please him.

He looked across the room to where Voldemort’s body, corpse now, lay. He was twisted on the floor, as he had fallen. Harry realized he was standing only as he walked towards the icon of everything that had gone wrong in the world. The prejudice, the injustice, the corruption, the violence. Tom Riddle might once have had some admirable traits, like diligence, intelligence, his tremendously voracious appetite to learn. But that had been lost somewhere in the toxic corrosion of his mind as he tore his soul apart. It was almost a tragedy. Perhaps Tom Riddle was as much a victim of Voldemort as Lily and James Potter. He stopped and gazed down at the wizard who was responsible for the calamity that was his entire life.

He didn’t look like much. Voldemort’s skin was pale, translucent and was obviously reptilian in places. Harry wondered if it was as soft as snake skin, before he shook his head. He _must_ be in shock if the thought of touching Voldemort didn’t make him cringe. His eyes were open, forever frozen in widened shock, as Harry had reflected the Killing Curse with an _Expelliarmus._ Harry had been shocked too. Hopeful, always, but there had been the chance that he had been wrong, that Malfoy was not the previous master of the Elder wand, that ownership was transferred by murder. It seems appropriate for an artefact created by Death, if the tales were true.

Voldemort appeared diminished in death. He looked mortal. The once grandiose black robes appeared too voluminous, drowning his slender figure. Voldemort had always been the taller, but Harry was definitely the more muscled, though not stronger. Voldemort had possessed a monstrous strength, probably enhanced by the golem body he had crafted. It was almost sad to see him like this, and Harry knew he would have hated this, would rather be burnt and scattered as ashes then remain and let the world become disillusioned of his legend. A nightmare destroyed by the light of day. It would be almost cruel.

Harry felt a twinge that he would have called sorrow were it inspired by any other being. He frowned. Harry knew that Voldemort had no such compunctions with displaying Harry’s corpse, particularly if it would destroy any hopes or happiness of his opponents. He had flaunted his victory over Harry to the world, pre-maturely, but only Narcissa Malfoy and Harry had known at that moment that Harry lived.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. Ron approached with an exhausted but self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Hey mate. Can you believe it’s finally over?”

Harry shook his head before gazing once more at Voldemort.

“This all, it doesn’t feel real, you know? Almost like it was some brilliant dream. Everything just fell into place, and I knew it would work and now he’s dead…”

“I know what you mean. Hermione said it’s just shock or something.” Ron replied. “You’re a hero, you know. Again. And I heard that they already told the Ministry. Rita Skeeter is probably on her way this very moment.”

Harry sneered in distaste, and Ron snorted. “Come on mate, she won’t be that bad. She’d be mobbed if she dared say a word against you now, and Hermione still has her with that whole animagus thing.”

Harry shook his head but still chuckled. “I bet you 50 galleons I will have a new pseudonym with too many hyphens by tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah. What do you feel about Vanquisher-of-Voldemort?”

“Vanquisher-of-Voldemort?”

“You-know-who’s-doom?”

“Um…”

“The Man-who-conquered?”

“Well…”

“He-who-defeated-he-who-must-not-be-named-for-the-fifth-and-final-time?”

Harry snorted, and looked back to Ron who was grinning in amusement. He smiled, but it felt hollow, reflecting no joy or satisfaction. He still hadn’t felt anything stronger than apathy about the outcome except sorrow for his nemesis. Ron didn’t seem to notice, but that was probably because he was so glad they had won. It was probably just shock.

“It’s really over, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and I say good riddance to the snake faced bastard. He’s dead for good, and soon we’ll have the rest of his slimy followers locked up.”

Harry nodded, and tore his eyes away from Voldemort’s sanguine lenses. Now was not the time to think of the dead, when there was so much of life left.

“So where’s Ginny? And Hermione for that matter?”

“Oh, they went up to the Hospital Wing. You should probably head up there yourself, Harry. Madame Pomfrey would freak if she knew you hadn’t been checked over yet.”

“Let’s go, then”

* * *

  _To Voldemort,_

_I suppose if you could read this you would think it strange that I would choose to write to you. I don’t care, but it seems as if you might be the only one knowledgeable in the answers I am seeking. See, it’s all due to the events from the day you died. The day I killed you._

_I was your murderer, no matter how indirect the line of fire was. There was a great deal of luck involved, but it was because I knew you that it worked. I knew you were manipulative and intelligent. I knew you disregarded emotional attachment and trust. I knew what taunts would drive you into a berserker’s rage. I knew you, just as you knew me._

_We obsessed with each other, focused only on what we could inflict on the other. You know me._

_So tell me, is it normal to feel apathy at the fall of your greatest enemy? You killed hundreds by your own hand, caused the deaths of thousands. Did you ever feel more than cold indifference to their fall?_

_I think I must be broken, Voldemort. You have always hung over my life, from the moment I entered the wizarding world, like some dementor polluting my every experience, infecting the very air I breathe. A constant overbearing presence, I should be so happy now that you’re gone. I’m free. I’m safe, and so is everyone else. I should be happy._

_I’m not._

* * *

“Hey! Harry!” He looked up with a frown to face Ginny. Harry blinked then raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘what?’. She huffed in return.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes!” She spoke with a reprimand. He flushed, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry Ginny, I didn’t realise.”

“Of course not, you’re always drifting off now, paying not a whit of attention to what’s right in front of you.”

He cringed.

“Sorry.”

She gave him a long look, before shaking her head at him.

“I was trying to ask your opinion on these dress robes” she asked pointing to a catalogue on the table in front of them. “I already have my gown and it would look best if we matched.”

He looked at the page. The robes all seemed to be modern in style and reminded him greatly of muggle tuxedoes, all sharp cuts and shaped unlike the traditional school robes. Ginny had circled one which he thought looked identical to the rest but came with an ice blue shirt instead of white. The model was preening under his gaze while the others pouted.

Belatedly he realised Ginny had started talking again.

“-letting the Malfoys attend. I mean, they were Death Eaters! I know Mrs Malfoy helped you in the end but it was only to help herself really. Imagine if Malfoy had died, bet she wouldn’t have helped you then.”

Harry frowned. The Malfoys were Slytherin, yes, but not evil. They were survivors and looked after each other. To speak so casually about the death of their son after a war seemed incredibly callous. If Malfoy had died, then he could admit his mother might not have lied to Voldemort, but from grief, not cruelty. She could have betrayed him after asking if that were so, and Malfoy still would survive.

Ginny didn’t seem to notice his frown, and continued speaking animatedly about whatever event they were attending next week. It was some party or something, there had been so many since the death of Voldemort they had begun to blur. He was the guest of honour at a great deal of them, and Ginny accompanied him to them all. Without her, dealing with the reporters would be a great deal more tiring. She dealt with the attention a lot better than he ever had, and seemed to have a rapport with them that left everyone smiling and his privacy intact. Ginny was sweet, with a core of steel. Life after the war suited her well, and she told him even the nightmares had stopped now.

She was so alive.

Maybe that was why he felt so disconnected with her nowadays. Then again, it wasn’t just Ginny. It was like a cheering charm had been cast on the entire nation. Praising him was practically all the Daily Prophet consisted of. It was all so saccharine he was practically ill. He found he really appreciated Skeeter’s articles then, as they literally oozed contempt from behind the flowery words. It was actually pretty entertaining.

But it still felt wrong to be so bright and jubilant. Didn’t anyone remember all the sacrifices, all the terrible loss of the war? Why was his latest trip to Hogsmeade a two page article and the obituaries no more than a list of names? Many people had fallen, all heroes fighting for the freedom of the Wizarding world and getting no more acknowledgement than a simple name. Harry had really just had a string of good luck no one could anticipate, (except perhaps Dumbledore), leading to the one perfect scenario which in turn lead to the death of Voldemort. If Draco had not disarmed Dumbledore, if Harry had not spoken the taboo name, if he had not defeated Draco, if he had not martyred himself, if Voldemort had perhaps have thought a little more...If, if, if. Really, when he considered it, he must have had felix felicis for blood to get so damn lucky.

“Harry!”

He jolted. Ginny looked furious now.

“Is it really so much better in that dream world than here with me? Because if that’s the case I’m leaving!”

“Ginny-”

“No! You’ve been like this for weeks now. The war is over! But you just sit there staring listlessly at the walls, almost never smiling. Even when we kiss, it’s like you’re not really here. Why can’t you acknowledge I exist once in a while, at least? Is that asking too much?”

He faltered. How could he explain, the sorrow, the anger? The way that even now the victory felt hollow, because yes, he had killed Voldemort but so many lives were ruined. People like the Malfoys, who were still on trial, or poor Andromeda who lost a husband, daughter and son-in-law. Even now, with pensive memories Snape was not acknowledged as the hero he had been. It infuriated him how they were disregarded, pushed to the side in favour of celebrating. That they were celebrating the fact that he had committed murder.

Ginny’s eyes were dark. She gathered up her things and walked to the doorway. There she paused, looking back.

“Harry, you know how I feel about you. Please just sort this out, whatever you’re thinking, and come back to me. If you can’t-” her breath caught, and for a moment she looked so wistful. “If you can’t move past this then maybe we should break up.”

She was gone before he could formulate a response.

* * *

_To Voldemort,_

_I’m unsure why I keep writing to you. Hermione got me this journal for my birthday, you see, and I just had to talk someone. You are dead, so I know you’ll keep my confidences. It has been fourteen weeks since your last breath. I fought for you, you know, to be cremated. I know you would not want the masses seeing you like that, so weak, diminished in death. The Order members wanted to parade you around, like some trophy, to mock._

_I couldn’t let that happen. I don’t know why._

* * *

 

Cameras were flashing, and people were cheering as Interim Minister Shacklebolt climbed the podium. Behind him stood the figures of Minerva McGonagall and two members of the Golden Trio. But all were distracted from the absence of one Harry Potter as Shacklebolt concluded his speech.

“It is with great pleasure, that I re-open Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!” The cheers rose once more, even over the _Sonorus_ charm the Minister used. “Now I leave you in the capable hands of our new Headmistress, Professor Minerva McGonagall.” He swept a hand out and stepped back from the podium as she moved forwards.

Harry stood to the back of the crowd, disguised with muggle concealer, contacts and a light glamour. It was amazing how no one looked twice at him, and he savoured the feeling of being normal, unnoticed. He smiled as McGonagall began her speech. She would make a good Headmistress. For her, the school came before all else.

Things were beginning to settle down. People were returning to their jobs, articles came out about new legislation instead of Harry’s new shoes, polls had begun to find a new Minister. Harry was glad. The country was recovering.

He wished he could follow.

It was frustrating to no end, because he could see it, like a split in a forest path. He knew the other led to safety, happiness; he could see himself there, besides the rest of the Wizarding World. But for some reason he was on the wrong path, leading away from that light and deeper into the shadows, and he couldn’t seem to turn back. Things just seemed to be getting further out of hand.

He had barely spoken to Ginny since she had left him, except to formalise their breakup. Until he could sort this all out, find his way back to the path of light, he didn’t think he should keep her hanging.

He wandered off towards the edge of the wards as McGonagall finished her own speech, apparating back to Grimmauld Place. It had been a pleasant distraction, but already the thoughts were crowding back, overwhelming his happiness that the school was reopened. Gloomy thoughts, the kind Hermione disapproved of. But still they were there.

Hermione and Ron…

He was somewhere between relieved and distressed not to be on the stage with them. Relief, well that was obvious. Distress, because they had been fighting again. Hermione, Ron and himself. Or rather, Hermione and Ron against him. The same fights as always; _“Why don’t you do_ something?! _Heal, move on!”, “Why are you supporting the Malfoys, Harry? They’re all evil gits…”,_

He had tried. When Hermione suggested he look into mind healers, he’d even gone so far as to book an appointment, but the healer had that same glazed look, praising him for his work in the war. She’d let him talk, and just ended up grinning to herself, and looking just seconds away from squealing in delight at having a celebrity patient. Or more accurately, having him as a patient.

By the end, she’d recovered enough of her professional detachment to say she couldn’t be his therapist, as she was hardly unbiased and seemed quite embarrassed about it. Her parting advice had been to wait awhile for things to blow over, before seeking professional help. Harry had to agree.

* * *

_Voldemort,_

_Lately I just feel so hollow. It’s like a mask is surrounding me, and everyone goes along and believes that I must be as ecstatic as them over my victory. They don’t seem to understand, what I did was murder. It split my soul like yours. I won’t join them in celebrating death. I think I may be the only one who mourned the passing of Tom Riddle. I accept it now, that I don’t think I could ever be happy with your death. Surely there could have been another way. I know from what Dumbledore told me that you will not find a happy afterlife, your shredded soul trapping you forever in limbo, watching in agony as the souls of others pass you by. I remember the infant I found at King’s Cross, that fragment of your soul. I feel sickened that I left it there, alone in anguish, even if the wounds were self inflicted._

_Dumbledore never really knew you, did he? He knew how you would react to a situation, perhaps, but only through observation and deduction. You were right when you told me we are remarkably similar. A few small changes, and I could have become as wicked as you. Would you have accepted me into your ranks then, acknowledge me as your equal, or murder me as competition? Yes, I can easily see what I might have become._

_Would we have been friends, had I lived at your orphanage beside you, alone together against the muggle world? Or were you too dark, even then, to be open to friendship, seeing instead allies and servants? What would I call you though? I know how you hate your first name, but Voldemort feels too formal, like a title. I will think of something._

* * *

 

Harry wandered into the library of Grimmauld Place, and returned to his favourite chair. It was a rich plush in a faded plum, with some fancy pattern inlaid with bronze thread. The frame was some expensive wood and was carved in flowing swirls that always reminded him of smoke. It was also probably the most comfortable chair in the entire townhouse. Beside it was a table on which rested a selection of his current reading material. This consisted of a number of tomes on charms, transfiguration and magical theory. There were also one or two muggle fictions. It was Sherlock Holmes he retrieved now.

Today had been exhausting. Halloween always was, but in his brief seclusion he had forgotten about just how voracious reporters could be. He had managed to leave the party early, but even still it left a bitter taste in his mouth. For everyone else this was the date he had first defeated Voldemort, giving them years of peace, but to him it was the day his parents were murdered.

He sighed.

He was glad now Ginny had decided to end things so early. He would have been terrible as a boyfriend, stuck as he was in the past. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have continued to ignore her, and she to draw him out of his thoughts too soon. They would end up resenting each other and be too stubborn to split up, determined to make it work.

It was about then Harry had decided he needed his own house. Besides, he couldn’t remain living with Mrs Weasley forever, despite how much she insisted he was welcome. He loved all the Weasleys, truly, but he was an adult, and all the attention could be stifling at times. Harry appreciated how easily they all accepted and included him, and he cherished each and every one of them as family. It was just that he had spent the first ten years of his life and nearly every summer in solitude. He enjoyed occasional seclusion from the world to relax and gather his thoughts.

Grimmauld Place was a haven, safe from fans, admirers and reporters alike. The wards were brilliant, and the Fidelius still hadn’t been removed. The last of his guilt over Sirius’ death was assuaged when he summoned his spirit during the final battle, so the house was now just a reminder of Sirius, and not a taunt. It was where Sirius had grown up, and was actually a really nice place once all the dust and grime was gone. His new house-elf Tizzy had been almost ecstatic when he asked her to clean the place. And when he complimented her work she was practically radiant.

Harry sighed and settled deeper in the chair. He had almost surprised himself with his rather sudden interest in learning and literature. Ron still gave him wary glances whenever he and Hermione got into a discussion. Hermione had of course been thrilled with his new interest. It had been while he and Ron were applying to be Aurors that he realised he didn’t want to be one. It had always seemed like the perfect job, chasing bad wizards, saving muggles, the usual. While he did have a bit of a saving people thing, and did enjoy the adventure, he didn’t think he wanted to do it as a career. Professional Quidditch was likewise rejected. They were both careers everyone expected him to follow. Harry quickly realised he had no idea what he wanted to do.

With Hermione back at Hogwarts to take her NEWTs and Ron training to be an auror Harry had decided to retreat from the public eye. He still knew surprisingly little about the wizarding world out of Hogwarts, so decided to read up. It was fascinating, some of the things he learnt, and it wasn’t long before his natural curiosity took over, prompting him to look deeper, find out more and while he would never become as bookish as Hermione, he found he could appreciate her interest in them. Besides whoever said that Gryffindors couldn’t appreciate knowledge?

Books also helped to distract him from his thoughts, which were no clearer to him then when Ginny first pointed it out. Thoughts of the war, the deaths, the aftershocks, and Voldemort...

Ginny said he was brooding alone here, locked away. It’s unhealthy, she told him. He would just smile, and apologise, and then return to the Black library and read some more. Although it had been easier to sort his thoughts out since he began writing them down. He glanced to the journal, it lay on the table with a quill beside it, perfect for writing, before he shook himself. No, today he wanted distractions, not clarification, hence reading Sherlock Holmes.

It was one of his favourites, _The Speckled Band_. It was set in some huge decrepit manor in the countryside, owned by an unpleasant man who had gambled his fortunes away. He grinned, engrossed in the story as Watson followed Holmes to the manor finding clues. But he must have chosen the wrong story. His mind just wouldn’t shut up. There were too many similarities, the old manor, _like Riddle manor,_ a lord in poverty, _like Marvolo Gaunt,_ a serpent assassin, _Nagini._

With a huff, Harry slammed the book shut and thrust it onto the desk. Folding his arms he gave the journal a rather petulant glare. It sat there innocently, bound in viridian leather, neat pages concealed within. He pouted, even as he reached over to pick it up. Secrecy charms enveloped it, hiding his writing from even the most persistent snoop. He flicked through the entries, searching for blank pages. They weren’t addressed to the journal. He wondered what Hermione would think if he told her he was using her gift to converse with the worst Dark Lord in living memory.

Grimly he lifted a quill and began to write. 

* * *

 

_Dear Marvolo,_

_Tonight is Halloween, the anniversary of the day my parents died. It has always been a bad day for me, but today was particularly horrible. There was, of course, the normal horrors of reporters and speeches on the current prosperity of the world now that you’re gone, and then a massive party when I want only to visit the graves of my parents. That was painful, but normal. It was as I looked around the room that I noticed. Everyone was so happy, and together. I just felt like I was drifting, anchor cut loose, and there was no one with me and it ached and I was so fucking lonely._

_And I realised that I missed you. Really, how fucked up am I that I miss the threat of a mass murdering psychopath. God, I need help._

_I know that I hate you, and that you’re evil. It’s not that I miss, just, I don’t know. A purpose? You were always my obsession, just as I was yours. My focus, my reason. And that’s not all either. Your Horcrux within me, present for most of my life, I miss that too. I grew up with it, feeling it wrapped within my own core. Now I ache for that feeling again, that familiarity, and I know nothing like that will ever be possible. I was feeling it for months, this hollowness, but I never thought..._

_Marvolo, your death seems to have taken a small part of me too._

_I hate you._

* * *

Blood dripped from the edge of the cut to the board below. Harry stood frozen, watching.

He had been preparing vegetables, almost mechanically, when the knife twisted, slicing across his knuckle. It felt like fire almost, burning but with no heat. Blood pooled quickly, dripping, bright red.

Harry blinked.

Appealing. It seemed so real, so basic. And pain. Gently he placed the knife down, bringing his hand up to inspect it. It was trembling.

_This is wrong,_ he thought to himself, even as he smiled. It almost reminded him... It reminded him of the times he had spent under crucio. Not in intensity, or injury, but just because everything seemed to remind him of Marvolo recently.

He shook himself, going to clean the wound. Tizzy burst into the room, telling him off for injuring himself and proceeding to cook dinner, still muttering imprecations. Harry smiled.

Shit, he’d thought Marvolo again, instead of Voldemort. Marvolo was a diary, and not even a Horcrux diary. He really needed to get out more.

But he eyed the knife from the kitchen basin. It still had drops of ruby on it.

* * *

_Dear Marvolo,_

_I really wish you could speak back sometimes._

* * *

 

Everything was spiralling, floating and unreal. He attended gatherings, he spoke at press conferences. They were pointless, and he could barely remember them even as he left. No one seemed to really notice, though he didn’t care if they did. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t know the date, didn’t know how long it had been since the fall of Voldemort. That didn’t matter either.

It was all just time, immeasurably long, impossibly short, and then he was back.

Secured, held done by his anchors.

The blade and his soulmate.

He loved his anchors.

The blade, sharp and swift, cutting deep and burning, and suddenly he could see himself again. Could feel himself, and his feet were on the ground, the spiralling stopped. Controlled.

And he could _think!_

Even as the blood flow slowed, he’d begin writing, pouring his head onto pages, mumbling about the empty time between. He needed it. His soulmate, on the other side of the diary, never answering but always reading. It was almost enough to distract him from the hollowness.

The ache, the burn, the ragged edges where something had once been before. Just a hole now, empty and it shouldn’t be!

Some part of him realised it was dangerous, some part remembered. Some part of himself knew it was unhealthy, considered informing Hermione. But it had long since lost control of the rest of him. It was too late now, he was too far gone, could feel his mind caving inwards, its support now gone.

He didn’t tell Hermione.

* * *

 

_Marvolo,_

_My darling, I think I love you._

_Maybe I always did, deep down. You defined my life as no other did, and even as I hated you, some part of me loved you for it. I never felt as at peace as when we were in conflict with each other. You were my purpose, my anchor, and now you’re gone, dead by my own hand, and they expect me to just move on? To live?_

_Think of what we could have been together, had we only tried. If you had realised, if I had left the light. We would be invincible._

_I hate you, but, god, I love you so much._

_But you’re dead, and I’m alone._

* * *

 

The times of lucidity were almost worse. The times when he locked away the knife, hid the diary beneath his bed. Fearful, and still empty. He hid during those times, laughed at the Prophet articles speculating on his sanity. Wouldn’t they love to know they were true.

His mind had snapped, he knew, with the loss of the horcrux. His mind had grown around it, collapsed inwards without it. And still the ache.

Hermione. He had to tell Hermione. She’d fix it, she’d fix him, like she always did. And then he’d be happy and they’d be singing, and he could finally find Marvolo’s cold embrace and kiss him awake – No! No, that was wrong, that was imaginary! Voldemort was dead! He’d never known Marvolo, Marvolo was a made-up man.

Harry was real. Harry was alive.

His friends were real. Ginny was real. Sweet Ginny, too whole for him.

Harry glared at the table in front of him.

He had to tell Hermione.

When had they last met up, anyway? He remembered snow, and a turkey, and pink hearts floating everywhere – he shook his head. All his memories were mixed up. Tizzy wouldn’t come when he called. Her elf space looked unused. Had he given her clothes in his madness?

* * *

 

_Marvolo,_

_Insanity would be a blessing, I think at this point. I can’t think! Everything’s dreamlike, too bright and too sharp, and nonsensical. And then I wake up and it’s been days, weeks sometimes since the last time. My arms have new scars, and there are lightning bolts carved into my legs, and there are pages of gibberish entries in this journal._

_I can’t remember what’s real._

_Did Hermione ever exist, or was she made up too?_

* * *

 

Harry felt tears trailing down his cheeks as he wrote, dropping onto the paper of the journal, smudging it a little. His hands were trembling when he finished the entry. There was nothing left. Tearing out a page he scribbled a note and let it drop to the floor, his gaze inevitably drawn back to the knife and promise of sweet oblivion.

Was he sane now, or was this the madness? He couldn’t tell. It wasn’t real, not like the blood in his palm flowing from the new cuts. Blood was good, blood made sense. Marvolo had tried to bleed him once.

He smiled.

Dear Marvolo, always thinking of him. Coming to find him at Hogwarts. Making the Portkey cup just for him. Now he had to trust Marvolo.

The knife would kill the madness in his heart. Wake him up. Free him, and then he could find Marvolo again, and Hermione, and Ronnikins would be there too, all just for him.

Marvolo was waiting.

* * *

 

_Darling Marvolo,_

_This is too much. I can’t deal with it anymore. Perhaps I was only meant to exist during war times, because the peace is destroying me more quickly and thoroughly than you ever could. It would have been kinder if your curse had actually worked. Someone else could defeat you, you had no protections left._

_I thought it was just the presence of the Horcrux I was missing, but it’s more. There’s so much more. It’s not right! It’s not fair! I can’t live like this, only half here. I need to act, do something, anything to end this._

_Without you, there’s nothing left of me._

_I’m already dead._

* * *

 

Hermione covered her mouth with a hand to prevent her sob from escaping. The note was simple, in Harry’s handwriting, sitting innocently on the table of Grimmauld Place. Tears smudged it slightly.

_I’m sorry._

Just two words, no reason, no explanation or justification. Nothing that could make sense of this. She stifled another sob. Beside the note lay the blade, clean now, gleaming in the light. Its stain went deeper than surfaces.

How could he do this? How could he leave them? He was her best friend, her first friend.

She stifled another sob.

* * *

 

_Dearest Marvolo,_

_I’m coming to meet you, love. I hope you waited for me. Even now I can feel it taking me._

_I love you. See you soon._

* * *

 

She found the diary not long after she found him, easily destroyed the secrecy charms on it. She’d taught most of them to him herself.

It was…it was disturbing to read. Words visibly tracing Harry’s sanity throughout their year of peace.

A year. A single year, right down to the day!

The words slipped from angsty rambling deeper into irrationality. On some pages he’d recite events that never happened, on others beg for forgiveness. Some seemed to cry out for help, and Hermione had broken down more than once as she read it. Harry had needed so much help, and she’d never even noticed!

The funeral had been a grand affair.

The Minister himself had spoken, and it seemed like not a single eye was dry. Even Malfoy and his family had shown up, aloof as ever. But there had been a pallor in Malfoy’s face, a shiver in his posture that said more clearly than words how much Harry’s death disturbed him.

Hermione didn’t know why she had kept the diary a secret. Some last gesture of loyalty to her friend, she guessed.

She should have seen the signs! PTSD at the very least was completely expected, they all had it to some degree. Bad flashbacks, anxiety attacks, nightmares, but Harry had just seemed a little distant. Reclusive.

Harry had had a soul bond that snapped. Fleur had mentioned it at some point, the suicide watches for widowed veela. It wasn’t exactly the same for a horcrux-based soul bond as for a natural vela soul bond, but to leave a person isolated after so close was the height of foolishness.

Hermione could feel her eyes tearing up again.

Why hadn’t she seen the signs?

 

 

 


End file.
